


Quiet under the Mountain

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [27]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gigolas Week, M/M, Meet the Family, gloin is a good daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:32:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas has come to meet Gimli's parents. Things are not quite as he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> another quick one for gigolas week. (since I don't tumblr I am very grateful to whoever is updating these onto it for me!)  
> oh, and at least two conversations here are based on real ones.....

“Fucking Mahal,” I say, “he is an elf. Our son has only bloody married and brought home an elf.”

My wife is laughing at me, I know she is, in the blessed privacy of our bed, my wife is laughing at me.

“You knew he was an elf,” she says, “you knew. We guessed when he spoke of him, Droin wrote to us to warn us, Gimli wrote to us. He asked if we would welcome him, he told you – he told us which elf. You cannot now be surprised.”

“No,” I say, “I am not. I – I just had not really believed it. An elf. Fuck. And of all creatures – this elf.”

“He is very pretty,” she says, as though that helps.

“Of course he is very pretty,” I hiss, “he is a sodding elf, they are all pretty. Besides, the way our Gimli has been, there was never much likelihood of him bringing home anyone who wasn’t pretty. Pretty. Is that all you can say?”

“No, my love,” she laughs, “I could tell you he is not his father, I could tell you he has saved our son’s life many times. I could tell you it is too late now anyway, they have exchanged vows, he wears our son’s beads, our son wears his jewels, they have braided together.”

I snort. I know all this. I know, oh I know, our son came home so miserable, so fucking grumpy from that quest, that had the two of them not sorted out whatever it was and admitted they need each other, I think either my wife or I would have been reduced to going to Mirkwood and finding the silly creature.

“Besides,” she adds, “never mind how happy he makes our little dwarrowling, have you seen the way his eyes follow him? He adores Gimli. How can you be cross?”

“I am not cross,” I say, “I – I just had not really thought. An elf.” A thought occurs to me, “those bloody ears – you don’t think he can hear us talking now, do you?”

She laughs again,  
“My love, Gloin my dearest,” she says, in that ‘you are a fool’ voice, “they have been vowed how long? Less than a year, and you think that in bed they might be listening to what we say?”

Oh. 

I suppose she is right. 

She usually is.

“I am not sure I want to think about what they may or may not be doing in bed,” I say. Although, now she has started this – and yes, alright I probably did start it, but never admit these things, that rule has served me well these past one hundred and fifty years – anyway, “they are very quiet. Do you think our son has lost his skill?”

And now it is not just she that is laughing. Too often we have heard reports of our son – over the years, it has felt as though every dwarf in Erebor, every man or woman in Dale has either been had by him, or wished to tell his poor parents how their friend was had by him. 

My wife rolls towards me, and taking me in her hand speaks into my ear,  
“I do not care. So long as his father has not.”

And – it seems I have not.

 

 

The days of their visit pass, and I begin to get used to him. He is indeed, very pretty – decorative. He is no trouble, he doesn’t argue – at least he doesn’t argue with us, I suspect he argues with our son and good luck to him; he is tidy which I am surprised by – he is a prince, I assumed he would not be used to tidying up after himself, but – shamingly I notice he tidies up after our son. Perhaps the elven king is a stricter father than I could ever be.

The singing is a bit annoying at first – but one gets used to it. 

He just – he isn’t what I expected. I don’t know what I expected, but – not an elf. 

There comes an evening when Gimli – and I suppose I should be pleased it has taken so long – announces he is going out.

“Drinking,” he says, “with old friends. And – I will be late. Do not come, elf. You will hate it. Stay here.” 

My wife and I exchange looks – we are not at all sure that the poor elf will not hate being left here with us at least as much. But all three of us have clearly long since learnt it is hard to change our son’s mind when once he has decided something.

My beloved wife decides she has something she needs to finish in the workshop, urgently. I suspect it will take all evening. Thank you dear, I think, just leave me with an elf to entertain. How kind.

Actually, he is no problem. We have established he is used to pipe-smoke – I suppose he would have to be – and he seems content to sit curled up looking at the fire. I suppose it is a bit like having a cat as Men do. I am thinking this, when something occurs to me and I cannot help myself, I laugh.

He starts, and looks at me questioningly,  
“I – I was thinking you are curled up like a cat – but singing like a canary. I am sorry.” It occurs to me that perhaps that is not very polite. But apparently he has not taken offence, because he is laughing now,

“I am sorry. I – I do not even know I do it. In fact – I deny it. I do not sing constantly. I tell your son this regularly.”

And for the first time, I see a hint of mischief, and I am relieved, for the last thing my son needs in a partner is someone who will let him have everything his own way.

“No doubt he refuses to listen, and swears at you?” I say, and as he blushes – who would have thought an elf would blush – I add, “you are good for him. He was miserable without you that winter. He spent all the time arguing – really arguing – with us, with Dwalin – with anyone who would listen to him.”

“Except Droin,” he says quietly. “Droin does not argue. He reasons. Something my love finds more difficult than anything,” and he smiles a secret smile, “fortunately, I do not reason with him.”

“I had forgot you know Droin. Is he – is he well? His father worries much about him.”

“Indeed he does. Enough to forget who I am in his desire to hear more of his son than Gimli-nin could tell,” he smiles again, “and I hear much of Droin even when we are with my elves – my – I do not know quite the word – my deputy he was, now I think I am merely a name for him to conjure with – Caradhil has begun a good friendship with Droin. They write. And complain of us, I suspect.” He must see the horror in my face, “no, no, Caradhil has no designs upon him. Caradhil – is not one for love. He is too much an elf, he has many elves who – oh it is complicated. But Dwalin need never fear for Droin. Besides, he waits still for the day he meets his love again beyond death, does he not?”

I nod, “Aye, he does.” But I do not want to think of death, do not want to think of the loneliness that awaits my poor son in those Halls beyond life.

There is silence again – as silent as this elf can be.

Suddenly he speaks again,  
“I – I am sorry. I should have spoken before. Gloin, son of Groin, I am sorry for my actions, I am sorry for my words. I – I would dearly like to have a reason, an excuse but – of my actions I can say I was following my King’s orders, and that little harm came of them in the end. My words – were my own. I am sorry.”

I shrug. I do remember, how not? Yet – does it matter now?

“Your actions – as I remember by your hand we were saved from those bloody spiders, from starving, from the evil that lurks in your father’s forest.” I pause, and I am tempted for a moment to make him wait, but it must have taken courage to say this – and to wait until my son is not here, “Your words – made me laugh afterwards. I have had many a drink bought me on the strength of them. And,” I cannot help it, “even more now my son has you in his bed. So – you are forgiven. You make my son happy. A father will forgive much for that.”

His face freezes into a beautiful elven mask, and I realise what I have said. Oh shit. The one thing we were asked not to mention. Oh the poor lad. 

“Some fathers,” he says, “some of us are not so fortunate.” He shakes himself, and I can see him putting it aside. “Gloin – I do not know what to call you – Gloin sounds too – not respectful enough – I – if you were an elf, I would call you Gloin-ada – but I do not know the dwarf word.” He looks at me, and I realise that he has avoided calling us anything these past few days,

“Gloin-ada will do,” I say – although it seems odd.

He smiles, and continues,  
“By your leave then, Gloin-ada, I – you still have that locket? I – I have thought of it often. May – may I see it again?”

Again, I shrug,   
“Why not?” and hand it over.

He opens it and looks at it.  
“You – you do not change the pictures?”

“Never. That is how they are in my head.”

He looks at the picture of my wife, and asks,  
“If – if Gimli’s mother were to die – would you – would you keep this picture? Would you have shown it to him?”

I look at him as though he is mad,  
“Of course I bloody would. How else could I remember her, how else could he know her?”

He looks at me, eyes filled with – tears? No, not tears. Elves do not cry.   
“From the words of those who knew her, from memories pieced together. How indeed?” 

I do not understand this elf. Bloody mad.

He is looking now at the picture of my little Gimli. He has another bloody silly question,  
“If – if you had more than one child – would you have had more than one picture? Do – do you think you would have loved them all as much?”

Again, I look at him as though he is mad,  
“Of course I bloody would. Although the pictures would have had to be small. But – of course I would,” I smile, “Bombur – you will remember Bombur – he had twelve children in the end – always had pictures of each of them somewhere on him. Not round his neck, obviously. But – what are you on about, elf?”

He shrugs and hands back my locket.

“I just wondered.”

He goes back to staring into the fire, quietly singing, and I think there is a different tone to it – but I am not sure.

My wife comes in, and asks if Gimli is not back yet.

“No,” I tell her, “stupid lad is probably drunk. I am not waiting up for him.” I turn to the elf, “you can if you wish, Legolas, but – if he is this late....”

“He will be no use at all tonight or in the morning,” he finishes, “oh well, I will rest now. But perhaps – if he is indeed ill-tempered tomorrow – I will walk into Dale. I have never been. Caradhil told me of the market there – he would be pleased to hear how it looks now.” 

And I realise that this Caradhil, my son’s love’s friend, can remember Dale before the dragon came.

“Oh, he remembers when Dale was but a small town, before the mountain was Erebor,” he sighs, “Caradhil has always been one to go exploring. He is interested in – people. Of all races. I – I was not considered sensible enough.”

My wife and I exchange glances. I cannot help but think his later actions may have proved his father right about this at any rate.

As we put the room to rights, a thought strikes me,  
“You asked to call me Gloin-ada – what word would you use........?”

He blushes fiercely, I don’t know why,  
“Naneth. I – I have no mother this side of the sea, I never knew her – so – just Naneth. If – if I had your leave?”

My wife smiles at him, and as she agrees, I understand our conversation about the locket a little more, and for a moment, for all his years, he looks so young.

 

 

Once in our bed again, my wife turns to me and asks,  
“You seemed to manage to talk with him a long while. Are you getting used to this elf?”

I meet her eye, and realise she was bloody listening,

“You – how could you leave me with him so long?” and then I realise that it is unfair to complain, “well, I suppose I must be. He is not too bad. There have been a number of dwarrowdams we worried about – I can think of several who would have been worse.”

“Yes. So can I,” and our eyes recite them, not needing to say the names aloud, before she speaks again, “do you know, the first day he was here he came to me, and apologised for his words to your locket?”

I look at her,  
“Am I so much more frightening? He has only now spoken to me of that,” I am, I find, quite hurt.

“No – I think – I think he was waiting until you stopped hiding behind our son. You have not been alone with him before.”

Oh. I had not thought of that. 

She shrugs against me, and says,  
“But, my love, I am worried that Gimli will not age as well as you. They are so very quiet each night. And now he is out drinking.”

“I do not think they would appreciate our advice,” I say, “perhaps elves are – different.”

“I hope not,” she answers, “Gimli will not find that easy to live with.”

“No,” I answer, “and nor will Droin find Gimli easy if he is not getting what he wants.”

And although he is our son, and we love him, we cannot help but dissolve into laughter at the thought of just how difficult he will be.


	2. Chapter 2

I lie here, quiet, at least I think I am quiet – for an elf I am quiet. Possibly I am not.

Not that it matters. I am waiting. 

My love is out. Out drinking. I am not entirely sure I like this, although I am realistic enough to know it was probably more pleasant here by the fire with his parents than in a dwarven tavern surrounded by drunken dwarves I do not know.

However.

I am tempted to be very angry with him, to ensure it does not happen again. Except that I know my dwarf. If I am angry and stubborn – he will be too. And he will always win that. So – I must think of a better way to convince him he would rather be here with me.

And there is my other worry. Normally – normally I would have no difficulty with this. I have learnt there is a very simple way to please my dwarf.

Fucking.

And – I love it. It is not as though he minds what we do, so long as we do a lot. And, for me, for me, it is some days – most days – all I can think of, how long until I can have him again. So, to persuade him to stay with me – I have never needed to.

But – not these last days. And I know not why.

 

At last I hear him come home and stumble through to the bedroom. It is his old room, left as it was when he came away, came back to Minas Tirith. Almost. I am confident my love did not leave it so neat, so tidy as it was when we arrived. Oh my most untidy dwarf.

Believing me at rest, he sits on the edge of the bed and begins to lever off his boots, his socks, and then I hear his tunic come over his head. He sits for a moment, and I imagine his head sunk into his hands. I wonder if all is well, I am tempted to turn – but – perhaps I will just wait a moment.

“Shit, Gimli,” he says, and I know he thinks he speaks quietly, “how much did I drink? Not enough. That’s how much. Enough to be horny, and not enough to sleep through it. Fuck. Or not.”

I wonder what he means. Why would he not want me tonight? He knows I don’t mind being woken – he has said it is a great advantage of an elf needing so little rest. Have I done something? Is he angry with me? He did not seem so earlier.

He sighs, and stands to drop his trousers, and I cannot help but wish to turn, wish to take him in my arms. But – I will wait a moment more.

He pulls off the cover and lies beside me, but he does not pull the cover back on, instead he looks at me. I can feel his eyes run down my back. 

“Oh fuck. Want,” he says, and I realise that he is not just looking at me. “Oh fuck, oh my elf, I want, want to fuck you. Sweet Durin, I want to be deep in that arse.” Well, why aren’t you then? I think. I have never said you nay. Wake me. But – he is not going to. He is – I have forgotten the word he uses – touching himself. Looking at me. But – why?

What have I done?

I feel the tears rise to my eyes, I feel rejection, I am afraid. I – I am too afraid of what he might say to question him at first – but – but no. I have spent enough of my life wondering, and longing, this time, this time I will be brave.

So I turn and reach out, taking his hand, stilling it, pulling it away from him, and I lean forward to his face.

I kiss him, I put his hand on my hip, and I feel myself melt into his touch, into his mouth. I do not care that he tastes of pipe, of ale, he is my love. I slide my leg over him and pull him towards me, my hand running through his beard.

But he pulls away from me,

“No.” He says. And the feeling – the feeling is as though I have stepped onto a branch which is not there. The support I trust is gone.

I look into his eyes, I hold his beard, I will not let him pull away from me.

“Gimli-nin, Gimli? Melethron? What have I done? I – I do not know why you turn away from me,” I swallow, I hold back my tears though I feel them pricking at my eyes, “please love, tell me?”

He shakes his head, his arm across his face,

“Oh shit. No. No, elf, it is not you. I – I cannot. I – oh for the love of Mahal, Legolas, if it was your father in the next room, could you? I – I cannot bear them to hear us.”

I cannot help it, I laugh.

“At last, at last,” I am joyful with relief as well as true amusement, “at last there is something you are more nervous of than I. Gimli, oh my Gimli, melethron-nin, dearest and most beloved – have you been worried about this all this time?” 

He nods, shamefaced, and I cannot but laugh,

“I wish you had said. When will you learn – when will I learn – to speak first and worry alone later? I have been going mad, wondering what I had done that you no longer desired me, that you wished only to comb me each night. And now – now you tell me you are worried your parents might realise that you are – whatever word you use – with your One. In bed. Some months, but less than a year after we are vowed.”

I pause, but he is still looking mortified,

“Beloved, you know I can hear well – you know your parents are not any quieter voiced than you – they have spent the last few nights worrying you are ill because we are so quiet. I – I do not suggest we are very noisy, but – I think your parents will not be too shocked if you have me moaning under you as I would like to be.”

I think I will not tell him that I know they still – still love. I do not think that would help.

He looks at me as though I am mad,

“Elf, no. What are you saying? I – I cannot fuck you where my parents will hear. No. I ask you again – if this was your father would you be so unbothered?”

I think.

“No. No, I would not. If it were my father and you were to make me moan, make me scream, make me cry out in need and desperation, clinging to you, begging you for more,” I am running my hands over him now, I can feel him respond as I keep up the litany of words he so loves to hear, “for more, oh my love, harder, do not stop, please, oh Gimli, please Gimli, yes Gimli, oh yes oh yes take me,” and oh he is hard in my hands, I know he wants me, I know I am going to get what I want, he is not going to be able to hold back, “fuck me, I want you, need you, please, in me, inside me, oh ride me, ride me harder and harder,” I pause, watching his reaction, listening to his breath, watching his desire, and I lean down to whisper in his ear, “if you were to take me like that, as you know I want you tonight, I do not know what my father would do, but I know one thing, my love, I could no more refuse you than I could – become a hobbit.”

I think he may have lost track of that sentence. I do not care. His hands are running over me, he is flipping me onto my hands and knees, his hand pushing my head down, his voice at my ear saying,

“Just – don’t scream. Please, love, please, bite the bloody pillow or something, but don’t scream,” and he licks my ear-tip, adding, “this is good, my love,” as his mouth descends my spine, his hands opening me, spreading me, and then, oh then. Then he is in me, and I love this, this feeling of possession, he is mine, mine, I love him so, for a moment he is still, just enjoying this which we have missed for so long, so many days. But he cannot hold still for long, he is moving, and I – I am saying the words he loves to hear, I am arching, bucking under him, pushing onto him, as he grips my hips.

I do not scream.

Not much.

 

 

Next morning, I find that my love is reluctant to rise. I am not, I am singing and happy as I can be. When I go to find a drink, to entice my love out of bed, his parents smile at me, and his mother says,

“All well now?” I feel my ears flush, and she adds, “If you do plan on walking, and you persuade our son out – you would do well to remember there are other elves around. There are few parts of the mountain-side which are not overlooked. And sound travels.”

“Naneth,” I answer, rejoicing in the word, “I am a wood-elf. We – have little restraint. And your son is a hero – should he not have a few – allowances made?”

“Aye, perhaps,” his father answers, “but – do not fuss him. He does not need his breakfast in bed.” He walks to the door and shouts, “Gimli, son, you are not treating your elf well enough if one tumble makes him so grateful. Fuck’s sake, lad, once – in, what, six days - what is wrong with you, what are you – a bloody hobbit that that is all you can manage?”

And as my love appears, his usual cheery morning face in evidence, 

-“Sod off, all of you, tired. Not going for a sodding walk, elf. Walked enough to last a bloody lifetime,” – 

I wonder if all dwarf-families are like this.


End file.
